


Revelations

by MintJam



Series: Live a lie [14]
Category: Peaky Blinders, Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence, Confrontations, Feelings, M/M, Polly is a bitch, Sex, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:40:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22887964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: No one knows what to do or say, everyone focused on the silent fury that’s passing between him and Polly. It’s clear that the reality of the revelation is still seeping in, like water into a dried-out soil, slowly trickling down to the roots.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: Live a lie [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1410712
Comments: 79
Kudos: 273





	1. Part I. An arrangement

**Author's Note:**

> Follows on directly from 'Empty' in my AU. As a reminder, Ada knows about Tommy and Alfie's relationship and has told Polly. Tommy did not take this news well and decides it's time to come clean with the family. 
> 
> This is the first time Tommy gets back in a room with his family following the feud over the 'nooses.' I have borrowed a few facts from canon, but this does not faithfully follow the plot of season 4. (Erm....it's Tommy/Alfie for starters!) There is an Italian threat, but it's not the full-on vendetta of S4.

A heavy resignation falls over Tommy as he pulls into the hamlet where Polly lives. It's nearly Christmas, and the sight of a gaudily-dressed fir tree on the green that stands between the cluster of genteel houses does nothing to raise his spirits. He's kept his mind occupied throughout the drive, turning over the contents and ramifications of this morning's meeting with one Jessie Eden in intricate detail rather than focusing on how this next meeting will play out. It's not that he hasn't thought it all through; it's just that the reality of Pol's disapproval is always worse than the idea of it, and if he can't conjure up something close to the reality of what he's about to face, then there is really no point in dwelling on it. He parks the car a few doors away from the house, leaving enough distance for him to savour a cigarette and arrive in silence.

It's worse than he'd feared. If the state of the house is anything to go by, Michael has clearly not had much success in following Tommy's advice; the drainpipe's been fixed, but there's a broken windowpane, and the paint on the front door is peeling in shiny black curls. He pauses to stub out his cigarette before lifting the heavy knocker and breaking the eerie silence. The door gives way a fraction under the weight of the brass lion's-head—it's not even fucking _shut_ , never mind _locked_ —and a puff of musk-scented smoke wafts out into the frosty air. Tommy sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. _Fucking Michael._

"Pol?" he asks, as he lets himself inside. It smells as if someone's lit enough incense to hide a decaying body; he can't help but cough. It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust, not that it's very bright outside, but the darkness in here is stifling. He wanders over to the tightly drawn living room curtains and snatches back the fabric. Weak rays of winter sun struggle into the room, highlighting the dust as they fight through air that feels as thick as syrup. The room is a tip: papers and bottles of varying sizes litter the floor; a round table in the corner bears all the hallmarks of having been used for some sort of séance. Tommy closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to expel the hazy images of his mother's last months that worry the edges of his mind. When he looks around, he spies Polly, lying flat on her back on a velvet chaise longue, bare feet perched on the armrest whilst her dark hair sweeps the carpet at the other end. She's so still that he'd almost think she was dead if it weren't for the thin trickle of smoke rising from her dangling wrist. She brings the dark cigarette to her lips and inhales deeply before blowing a stream of smoke out of her nostrils. 

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," she says.

"What the fuck's going on, Pol?"

"That is a very, very good question, isn't it, Thomas?"

_Fucking hell. Michael's been here. Ada's been here. How could they leave her like this?_

"We need to talk."

"There's no _we,_ Thomas. _We_ didn't end up with our head in a noose. Did _we_?"

He didn't come here to apologise or to justify himself, but the words slip out nonetheless. "It was a deal, Polly. You know I had no choice."

"Yeah, well. Neither did I."

He knew this would happen, of course he did, but fuck if it doesn't hurt. He takes another cigarette from his case and rolls it slowly over his lip as the silence stretches like years.

Eventually Polly tilts her head up. "Poor Thomas, just men now I hear."

Tommy wanders over to stand by the doors, away from her disapproving gaze. He looks out onto the garden—leafless and lifeless—as dead as the rest of the house.

"Not men, Polly. One man."

"And didn't you know how to pick him? You seem to have a thing for fucking our enemies."

Tommy lets the _our_ go unmentioned, even as he can't help but tuck it into a tiny box in his mind that might be labelled 'hope.'

"Was Grace's betrayal not enough? You need someone else to repeat it?"

"Don't," he says, clenching his fists. He hates the sound of Grace's name on Polly's lips, the way it drips with disdain. 

"Maybe that's all that gets through to you these days. The risk. The fear. Is that what turns you on, Tommy? The thought that you might get fucked?" There's a dark humour to Polly's tone that she doesn't convert into laughter.

Tommy grits his teeth and focuses on the lone magpie strutting across the frozen lawn. 

"He's done it before. He'll do it again. You mark my words . . . betrayal's in that man's blood."

Tommy stalks over to the table and pours whiskey into a tumbler. He bloody well asked Michael to get rid of the spirits, didn't he? Still, he's glad at this moment it's here. He swallows a generous measure and with it the myriad doubts that it's taken him so long to fight down. The fear that Alfie is playing him, is waiting for a moment to strike, to deceive and cheat him like he’s done before. 

"I'm not asking for anyone's approval, Polly."

"No. Tommy Shelby doesn't need anyone's approval, does he?"

He sighs and looks up to the heavens, silently asking a god he doesn't believe in for patience.

"There are opportunities, Pol," he says.

This time she does laugh out loud.

"Opportunities," she sneers. 

"And threats. Serious threats. From the Italians." 

"It's not going to last, you know. Solomons."

"Polly," he sighs. _Who knows if she's even listening?_ "I'm calling a family meeting. Boxing Day. My house."

"I have seen, Thomas—"

"Oh, you have seen, have you?" He whirls around to face her, fighting his exasperation. Her voice has turned soft and wistful, like she's talking to ghosts, and it makes his flesh crawl. "What the _fuck_ have you seen, eh?"

"—wedding bells and houses even larger than yours."

"It's time to give up the pills, Polly. I fucking _told_ Michael—"

"And a baby," Polly continues. "A little girl. With hair as dark as midnight and _your_ eyes, Thomas. God help her."

He's heard enough. He walks towards the door without a backwards glance. "Tell Michael to get that window fixed. And close the _fucking_ front door."

He's shivering before he even steps back out into the cold, December air.

*

Boxing Day morning finds Tommy standing in front of his bedroom mirror, deftly re-knotting his tie. A few weeks of eating and pushing the floor have certainly improved his reflection. Alfie will be pleased to see a little more meat on his bones, but he hasn't done it for Alfie's benefit, he’s done it for his own, for this impending reunion. Almost a year without his family is something he'd never dared to imagine and doesn't want to repeat, but no one is loyal to a weak leader. He needs to be strong. They need him, especially in light of this new threat. He can’t leave Polly to Michael, that much has become very clear. She's too proud and bitter; he’s too wrapped up in his own head. It’s time he resumed his position as head of this fucking family, and today is the crucial, first step.

He waits until everyone has arrived before heading down the stairs. There is a strange energy buzzing beneath his skin, anticipation and trepidation. This _needs_ to go to plan. He takes a deep breath as he stands outside his study. The low hum of voices from within fills him with an unexpected wave of excitement. He hasn't seen Arthur or John in nearly a year, and their proximity alone is exhilarating, even if what he's about to tell them may send him back to square one. Lizzie appears from the drawing room with a steely look in her eyes. He glances down at her outstretched arm as she presses a tumbler of whiskey into his hand. 

"You're going to need that," she says in her clipped, disapproving voice. It’s undermined by the demure smile she’s trying to hide.

He takes the whiskey and slings it back. "So, what am I in for?"

"Linda and Esme refused to come. Finn looks like he's been rolling in snow for a month at least. And he's brought Isaiah with him. As for Polly—" she pauses.

"Yes?"

"—she looks about ready to kill." 

"Right." _No surprises there then._

"I would say good luck, but you're going to need a darn sight more than that." She opens the door and follows Tommy in.

Frances has arranged the chairs in a way that is horribly reminiscent of the last time they gathered here—the day of the arrests. His first thought is whether this meeting would have been better held in the drawing room, but it's too late to change it now. He walks slowly to the large windows behind his desk and stares out at the lawns. He can feel a dozen stares drilling into his back, but no one says a word.

"Merry Christmas," he starts, as he turns around, eyes grazing past the enormous, decorated tree to focus on the bookcase at the back of the room. There's a ripple of movement as legs are shuffled, arms are crossed and uncrossed, throats are cleared. No one returns the greeting.

"Before we start, I have something to say." He places both hands on the desk and looks down, unsure of his voice if he makes eye contact with John or Arthur. "The last time we were in this room it ended badly.” There’s another shuffling of limbs. “If I could have found a way to save you from jail then I would have."

Polly makes a loud, dismissive noise and mutters, "oh please."

Tommy looks up in time to see Ada shoot her a stern look.

"I know, brother," mumbles Arthur, prompting Tommy to catch his eye. It hits him in the stomach, just how much he's missed Arthur, and he has to look away. John is shifting in his seat now and muttering something that Tommy can't quite make out, but that sounds conciliatory. Finn nods at him and _fuck_ , Lizzie was right, he looks like a lad who's been burning the candle at both ends with nobody to stop him. 

"I did what I had planned to get you all out, but it took longer than expected. For that, I am sorry."

"Fucking your way around London whilst we rotted in jail," Polly hisses, fumbling with a cigarette and lighter. Michael whispers a quiet, warning, "mum," as Ada reaches over to put a hand on Polly's arm. 

"It wasn't like that, Pol," Ada says, looking up at Tommy with her head bowed.

"What's that supposed to mean?" asks John, looking from Polly to Tommy and back again. "Wasn't like what?"

"Ask him," spits Polly. 

Tommy needs to get control of this conversation before it gets away from him.

“You don't have to say anything, Tom," Ada says quietly.

It's a bit late now, but he appreciates the sentiment because, despite how livid he's been with Ada, he's never doubted her loyalty or her good intentions. He wishes she hadn't told Polly about Alfie, wishes he hadn't been forced into this public revelation when he needs to hold them all together. Then again, the level of animosity would likely have been the same. Perhaps it's irrelevant now, given what he needs to tell them about the Italian threat. It had to come out sooner or later.

Tommy stands up straight and looks around the room like he actually owns it again. That's all it takes for the atmosphere to shift, for eleven other pairs of eyes to be trained entirely on him. He's glad, once again, for the press-ups, for the illusion of strength he's managing to project despite the past few months. It's satisfying, the knowledge that he still has that power, but not thrilling in the way it once was. Because now he knows what comes with it: the responsibility and worry, the expectations and the blame. The blame that is burning into his skull from Polly's side of the room. He clears his throat.

"We are, once again, under threat. Because we killed someone. Vincente Changretta. His son Luca has come to take revenge and he will not stop until our whole family is dead. So we need to put our differences behind us and stick together. Until this business is done."

He looks around the room. Johnny Dogs and Uncle Charlie stand at the back, faces glum but resigned. Finn and Isaiah look strangely eager, too young to understand the seriousness of the threat they face, or maybe just too fucking high. Michael's haughty gaze is no doubt designed to ingratiate himself, but it's John and Arthur that Tommy cares about, his comrades in war and peace. 

"Which means that today, here in this room, we have to agree to end this war between us."

He studiously avoids Polly's gaze, and it's Arthur who’s first to speak. 

"Alright, Tom," he says, lips thinned, face sincere. "Peace, brother."

"Peace," John mutters, shaking his head. "Mother-fucking Italians."

Everyone else follows, a reticent chorus of agreement that flutters around the room. Until it reaches Polly.

"And where does London stand in all of this, Thomas?"

"London stands beside us, Polly. We have an alliance." 

"Oh, an alliance? That's what we're calling it now?" Polly rolls her eyes and snorts. Tommy wonders how much she has drunk. "In my day we called it _fucking_."

Right. So she's going to make this as difficult as possible. He feels his anger rising from the pit of his stomach but needs to keep it in check. "Our enemies are their enemies too," Tommy says calmly, but Arthur is looking between him and Polly, a question behind his eyes.

“What alliance, Tom? Not Solomons?”

"There is something else that I need to tell you. Something that has become relevant to our situation." Tommy runs a hand through his hair and braces himself for the next part. There is no better way to say this. "What Polly is so subtly alluding to is the fact that, over the past few months, Alfie Solomons and I have come to a certain _arrangement_. We are—"

"Fucking!" shouts Polly with a triumphant glint in her glassy-eyes.

Tommy looks at her with eyebrows raised. He has never wanted to slap her before, but by god he wants to now. His hearing temporarily disappears in a roar of blood and comes back just in time to catch Arthur's snort of laughter. He's looking at Tommy like someone's told a bad joke and he's waiting for the punchline.

"Yeah," Tommy replies, nodding at his brothers. "Fucking."

It's out. It's said. He takes out a cigarette and lights it, largely so that he has something to do with his hands whilst the rest of the room reacts. He doesn’t need to look up to know that Arthur’s muscles are tightening, fists balling in his lap, face contorting in a mask of rage. It's almost comforting in its familiarity.

"No," Arthur murmurs, shaking his head as if this is a mistake. “No, no, no.”

But John is on his feet, pacing and rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes contracting in a slow-motion squint. “What the fucking _fuck_ , Tommy? What the _absolute_ fuck?”

Finn and Isaiah look at each other in utter confusion.

"I knew it," Johnny Dogs is whispering to Charlie at the back of the room.

Curly looks to Uncle Charlie who looks like he's seen and heard too much in his life to even pretend to be shocked. Michael alone is still. He stares straight ahead, poker-faced, as if he's running through the range of appropriate reactions in his head and has yet to decide which option might fit best. Tommy can appreciate the sentiment; he feels like he's watching events in slow-motion, from somewhere above himself. Ada gets to her feet and moves towards the desk.

"Why?" Arthur manages to grate out through clenched teeth. "Why him? Of all the fuckin' people, Tom, in all the fuckin' world—"

And that's when Tommy snaps. Perhaps it's relief that it's finally out, perhaps it's plain old anger, but he hasn't seen most of the people in this room for twelve fucking months and now, fucking _now_ they have the audacity to care about what he's been doing?

"Why? You wanna know why, eh? Because some nights," he yells, "some nights it was _him_ that kept my heart from breaking. _Him_ that held me together. No one else." Ada puts two hands on his arms, and guides him into his chair. 

The room seems stunned into silence, the air alive with energy from the words yet left unsaid. Lizzie picks at her dress, shoulders sloped inwards, head bowed, like every other head in the room, bar one. Polly taps ash onto the rug and sits in the centre of it all looking smug as the first tight rosebuds of spring. Tommy just glares at her, nostrils flared, no longer able to hide his anger and no longer caring if she sees it. Polly smiles and pulls at her lower lip. No one knows what to do or say, everyone focused on the silent fury that’s passing between him and Polly. It’s clear that the reality of the revelation is still seeping in, like water into a dried-out soil, slowly trickling down to the roots.

And then Frances appears at the door, with all the timing of a well-rehearsed actress, but none of the gravitas. "Your guest has arrived, Mr Shelby," she stammers, caught out by the strange atmosphere in the room.

"Show him in," Tommy says, waving his cigarette in the air, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Polly glances over her shoulder to see who has broken the stand-off. "You cannot be serious," she says.

"Oh right, well, that is a nice welcome, innit?" says Alfie, looking slowly around the room before his eyes come to rest on Arthur.

Tommy cringes internally.

"Shalom, Arthur, shalom!” Alfie says, arms flung wide in welcome. “And John, a pleasure, as always."

Alfie sidles around the back of the room to where Johnny Dogs is standing. “Johnny, right?” he says. "Nice to see you under more fortuitous circumstances."

“Aye,” Johnny answers, nodding his head in greeting. 

“Never, and I mean this in the nicest possible way,” Alfie says, addressing the room in general, “ _never_ let this man near a dislocated shoulder.”

He slaps Johnny on the back as he manoeuvres himself between the chairs, oblivious to (or simply enjoying) the confusion that surrounds him. He makes his way towards Tommy’s desk, doffing his hat to Ada as he passes, before stopping when he’s directly beside Polly.

"You must be the aunt," he says, shifting his cane to his left hand and proffering his right to Polly. She doesn't take it. "Suit yourself," Alfie mutters, continuing his journey to the front of the room and Tommy, who is now standing behind his desk. “Polly, this is Alfie Solomons,” Tommy says with a deep sigh.

Polly looks straight past Alfie, who is perched on the front of the desk, like an orator about to commence. Which _who knows_ maybe he is. Tommy has no idea where this is going, but every confidence that Alfie is about to take it . . . _somewhere_.

"Have you no _shame_ , Thomas?" Polly hisses.

"Shame . . ." Alfie answers, before Tommy can say another word. "Shame?" He repeats. "Now that _is_ an interesting concept, innit? _A painful feeling of distress caused by the consciousness of one’s own wrongful behaviour_." Alfie elongates the words, pulling them from his mouth like a string of pearls. 

Tommy rises to his feet, preparing to intervene.

"So what, exactly, has he done," Alfie says, pointing his cane over his left shoulder towards Tommy, "that is so fucking _wrongful_ in your eyes? Hmm? I'm interested. Really, I am."

Polly smirks. She's not easily silenced, and Tommy knows she's biding her time.

"Fucking a man? Is that it?" Alfie continues. "Or fucking a Jew perhaps? Hmm? Has he broken some social code that _you_ , the good and law-abiding people of Birmingham, hold so bloody dear? Cause from what _I_ hear, and _please_ correct me if I am _wrong_ —I rarely am, but there is a first time for everything—you make your _own_ rules. Live by your own code. Just like me."

"Mr Solomons—" Polly interjects, but Alfie cuts her off,

"What wrongful behaviour should he feel distressed by? Hmm? Dragging your sorry arses out of the muck? Buying your pretentious house perhaps? Or getting your fucking _son_ back for you? From the claws of this country’s corrupt and contemptible authorities? Which parts of that, _exactly_ , are shameful, Mrs Gray?"

Tommy watches Polly tense at the use of her correct name and wonders how the fuck Alfie knows all of this.

"He stuck our necks in a noose," Polly says, jabbing her cigarette in Tommy’s direction.

"Oh, I see," Alfie says, voice thick with false understanding as he lifts his cane in the air. "Well that just makes everything clear. So you didn't, in matter of fact, commit those crimes of which you were accused? You did not kill that pig of an inspector? That wasn't you?"

Polly glares so fiercely at Alfie that Tommy can feel the burn.

"You didn't kill him, say, for _shame_?" Again, Alfie rolls that word around his mouth like he's thoroughly enjoying the taste of it.

Tommy leans over and puts a hand on Alfie's arm. "Come on, Alfie," he says quietly, but Alfie ignores him completely, clearly warming to his subject, his opportunity. Tommy can feel the energy emanating through Alfie's sleeve and knows that it's dangerous. 

"And you," Alfie points at Arthur, "you think Thomas should feel ashamed, do you?”

Arthur’s upper lip curls, but he looks at Tommy as he bites back on a response.

“Oh wait, you can't answer, can you? You'd need to check with your wife. You," Alfie says, turning quickly to point his cane at John, "your role in this whole Italian saga was pretty instrumental, right? You cut Angel? Killed Vicente? Left his wife to run back to the States? Tell me, do _you_ feel ashamed?"

"Fuck you," John says. “Fuck him, Tommy!”

"No. Truth is none of you should feel ashamed. Because this is the way of our world. The way of the wicked world that _you_ have all chosen, from which _you_ all profit, and that _he_ has made fucking possible." The exaggeratedly calm tone to Alfie's voice is lost by the end of the sentence, his inner fury peaking through. It makes Tommy's breath hitch. 

"Don't make me sick," says Polly.

"You're not the one who's been sick though are you, hmm?"

 _Fucking hell Alfie_ , Tommy needs to shut this down, to shut him up. He places a hand lightly on Alfie's shoulder, a gentle touch that he hopes will have more impact than any sudden movement.

"Enough, we're all in this together. We’ve a common enemy, Alfie."

Alfie shrugs him off and points at Polly, intent on having his say. "All these months you've been busy drowning yourself in spirits and self-pity. But you're not the only one who nearly fuckin' died are you? Only he was _alone_. In this house—”

There’s a creeping feeling beneath Tommy's skin that makes his breathing stop. He wants Alfie to shut the fuck up. If it was anyone else Tommy would yell and end this with a vicious glare, but he's too nervous of Alfie's mood; too familiar with his fury. What the _fuck_ is he doing? If he doesn't shut up he is going to undermine this whole fragile truce, not to mention Tommy's dignity. They haven’t even discussed their approach to the Italians and here Alfie is, following his own agenda, taking this meeting sideways. _Why is Tommy even surprised?_ “Alfie,” he growls.

“—abandoned by the very people he spent months scheming to save." Alfie is spitting the words out now. This is going to hell. 

"What does that mean?" Finn asks, looking desperately around the room. "You're alright, Tommy?"

"It's none of your fucking business,” Tommy shouts, and then quieter, “Alfie, enough."

"Oh it’s poor, sickly Tommy now, is it?” Polly sneers, provoked rather than cowed by the crackling static in the air. “Funny. He looks healthy enough to me."

Ada is shaking her head as Alfie rises to his feet and moves slowly towards Polly; Arthur and John get out of their chairs and Tommy has enough experience to know that things are about to implode. One more snide remark from Polly and Alfie is going to unleash a torrent of words that will scatter them all, like skittles. He can’t let that happen. Can’t let Polly question Alfie’s loyalty or mock his protective stance. Can’t shut Alfie down more forcefully and risk his temper erupting.

"D’ya hear that, Alfie, a skylark," he says, “outside on the lawn.”

Alfie turns to face him at that, eyebrows raised in surprise. He stares at Tommy for several long seconds during which Polly remains blissfully silent. “A skylark, you say? Well. That is something. Guess we ought to listen.” Alfie nods his head just perceptibly enough that Tommy knows he’s got the message. He's going to have to trust him because he needs to get out of this study.

“Oh no, no, Tommy,” Curly chirps from the back of the room, “December is too early for a skylark. They’re quiet in the winter, Tommy. Keep themselves to themselves, they do.”

Not for the first time, Tommy thanks some higher power for Curly’s quiet sincerity. He throws one last look in Alfie’s direction as he walks past the rows of chairs that litter his path to the door.

“I happen to know that skylarks nest all year round on this estate, Curly,” he says as he puts a hand on the man's shoulder and guides him out of the room. 

“The rest of you—help yourselves to food and booze,” he says as he closes the door behind him and heads out into the fresh air.


	2. Part II. Nature abhors a vacuum.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy drifts off soon enough, his whole body feels relaxed in a way that would be gratifying if Alfie felt like he was in any way responsible for it. He can't shake the stubborn feeling that he's been filling a vacuum that doesn't exist anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to muse, for generally listening to my inane ramblings, and still agreeing to beta!

Alfie stares at Tommy's back as it disappears out of the study door and wonders ( _knows_ actually, if he's being honest with himself, which he may as well be because no other fucker ever is) that he's probably said too much. He's exceeded Tommy's brittle limits, his ability to deal with compassion in any form or to allow others to see when he needs it.

The problem is, Alfie can't help but push.

He's done it right from the start of this _thing_ they have. This ' _arrangement'_ he heard Tommy call it earlier. He's pushed and nudged Tommy closer to those rigid emotional boundaries he's set for himself—right over them on several occasions. But it's that knowledge—that Tommy would never step over them entirely of his own accord, would never make himself that open or honest or needy for anyone else—that makes Alfie feel like a king. 

So yeah, maybe he got a little carried away. But the words, they just flow out of him sometimes, don't they? Especially when assisted by a little righteous anger, (which is fucking hard to stifle in this room full of ungrateful parasites). Still, Tommy said skylark, so Alfie will sing.

"Well, it has been a pleasure. It really has," he says, voice loud enough to startle the entire room back into focus. "I can honestly see why Tommy missed you lot so much. All this love and heart-felt concern in one room is just heart-warming to see. Yeah. Lovely. _Really_ lovely."

It's obvious to Alfie that the assembled troops have no idea what to do now that their General has left. Infantry, to a fucking man, every last one of them, looking around hopelessly for someone's lead to follow. Except, perhaps, the women. Ironic how they have more balls between them than the rest of the room put together.

Alfie rests both hands on his cane and prepares to fill the void. "So, Boxing Day. Why d’they call it that? I mean Christmas, that's obvious enough. Clue’s in the name. S’about Christ. But _Boxing_ Day ain't got nothing to do with boxing. Or any other sport for that matter."

He thinks he sees one corner of Ada's mouth twitch up.

"Not that there’s anything wrong with boxing in my book, good honest sport. Well, unless I'm fixing the odds, of course. Still, Arthur, I hear you're a bit handy, eh? Perhaps you could treat us to a little festive display? Find someone to spar with?"

"Don't _fuckin_ ' tempt me, Solomons."

John pats Arthur on the shoulder. "Don't rise to this prick."

 _Nah, that's your brother's job,_ Alfie thinks, but in a remarkable and uncharacteristic display of restraint, he doesn't say it out loud. Skylark and all that.

He's about to open his mouth again when Frances appears at the door, looking a little lost when she doesn't see her boss.

"Erm, I came to tell Mr Shelby that the food is ready. In the dining room," she says.

"Thank you, Frances. Thank you very much," Alfie booms. "And Seasons Greetings, my dear," he adds, not only to ensure that his acquaintance with Tommy's staff is known, but because he genuinely likes the woman.

She mumbles a shy, "and to you Mr Solomons," before leaving as quickly as she came. Alfie turns back to the gathered Shelbys.

"Well I, for one, am absolutely starving," he says, swinging his arm in an exaggerated arc towards the door. "So shall we?" 

"Who the fuck put him in charge?" John mutters.

Alfie doesn't listen to the rest of the angrily muttered words because he's just spotted Charlie peering around the door, no doubt looking for his dad. When he doesn't find Tommy, he looks anxiously around the sea of faces for anyone else he recognises. There can't be many of those, given the length of this feud, so it's not terribly surprising that when he spots Alfie, he runs straight towards him shouting, "Alfie Bear!!"

In no time at all, his little arms are wrapped around Alfie's knees, and he's jabbering excitedly about horses and stockings and sweets and trains and . . . fuck knows what else, Alfie's already lost track. This display of affection probably ain't going to go down too well with all these aunts and uncles in residence, but Alfie couldn't give less of a fuck. He lets Charlie take him by the hand and lead him out of the room, enjoying the raised eyebrows that follow them.

***

It's gone midnight when Tommy stumbles through the bedroom door, rousing Alfie from what he will absolutely insist, if asked, was a deep and restorative sleep. (The lamp is still on, the radio too, and there's a book open in his lap, but these are details unlikely to be met with suspicion given Tommy's current state.)

Tommy's drunk, in that clumsy, sleepy sort of way that gives Alfie a glimpse of the teenager he must once have been. He sits heavily on the edge of the bed and struggles to relieve himself of his holster.

"Where d'you go?" he slurs, trying to kick off his shoes. 

"There's only so much of Johnny Dogs' fiddling I can take, to be perfectly honest."

"Bollocks. Man’s got talent. You just disappeared."

"Yeah, well. You were otherwise engaged, weren't you?"

"Had a lot of catching up to do."

"And I thought things might play out best if I didn't shoot anyone you were catching up _with_. Alright?" 

Alfie had left the Shelbys to their drinking some hours ago. He'd smoothed the waters with Ada (because Tommy had asked him to and because she had the good grace to apologise for underestimating just how livid Polly would be). He spoke to the aunt again too, so at least they're on the same page now—albeit in completely separate books. Thankfully, Alfie was sequestered by Charlie soon after to admire a ridiculous number of Christmas presents. By the time the boy was whisked off to bed, Alfie had had enough of this fucking reunion. He headed back downstairs out of duty, hoping to find Tommy, but had ended up stuck with the youngest brother. These lads who didn't fight might as well be a different bloody species as far as Alfie’s concerned. Finn had looked terrified throughout the entire conversation and so fucking relieved when his mate came back from wherever he’d been with one of the maids that Alfie almost felt sorry for him.

But it was watching Tommy and Arthur hug that had finally sent Alfie to bed. He couldn't stand the way Arthur hung off Tommy like a sodden overcoat. Or the way that Tommy had gripped his brother's neck and mumbled words into his shoulder with gravelly sincerity. The whole interaction made Alfie's skin prickle and his stomach turn, especially in light of Arthur's hissed threat earlier in the evening: "whatever you think you've had going on, he don't need you mate. He has _family_." 

He's drawn from his thoughts by Tommy, saying, “thank you,” as he flops onto his back on the bed. He manages to sound unusually earnest, despite the slightly glazed eyes. Then again, Alfie shouldn't be surprised. Even when Tommy is truly drunk—which Alfie has rarely seen—he tends to maintain control of the general flow of his words. Right now, he's just nicely loosened. 

"Thanks for what?"

"Shutting up for once. Not punching anyone."

"Hmm. Not making any promises I can keep that up. Just so you know."

Arthur's words ring in Alfie's ears once more. Not that he's afraid of the man—Arthur's a reckless firebrand without a mind of his own—it's the inexplicable familial loyalty that has Alfie feeling threatened.

Tommy rolls towards Alfie and wraps one arm over his middle.

“You’re glad to have that bunch of fuckers back, aintcha?”

“They’re not back yet, Alfie.”

“Course they are. They’d follow you off a cliff, those idiot brothers of yours. And you’d fuckin’ well lead them an' all.”

“Don’t scare me, Alfie,” he whispers, with that slightly disturbing sincerity. "Just fuck me. Make me feel good."

Alfie sighs and looks down at Tommy, sleepy-eyed, still wearing his shirt and trousers. He should absolutely deny that request on grounds of inebriation. But he won't. The sight of Tommy so warm and honest and loose-limbed beside him, well, it does things to a man's heart, don't it? Things he couldn't have envisaged still being possible after the war. He throws his book on the floor and leans over Tommy, wrapping him firmly in both arms as he leans in for a kiss.

And Tommy's mouth yields so easily for him, loose and soft as melted butter. He sighs into Alfie’s mouth, like someone's turned the valve on a still and released the pressurised vapour. It makes Alfie want to protect him and indulge him and fuck him into the floor.

He works his hand down Tommy’s chest, undoing the tiny buttons of another expensive shirt. Tommy doesn’t even try to help and doesn’t break the kiss. He seems content to let Alfie make all the effort, even though it’s taking an age, whiskey filing the edges off his usual impatience. Alfie wraps his arm under Tommy once the cotton is fully splayed open. He pulls their bodies close, chest against chest, skin against skin, and Tommy moves like a pulled bow, arching up into the grip with a languid keenness that makes Alfie's neck flush. _Fucking hell._ He's so pliant yet eager, pleading with half-glazed eyes for Alfie to hold him . . . to take him . . . to _smother_ him. And how can Alfie deny him that? How can Alfie deny him _anything?_

He fumbles with Tommy's trousers, too impatient to care that he's being rough as he pushes them down Tommy's thighs and off, off, off! He doesn't even bother with oil, letting spit and pre-come serve the purpose in his haste to claim the beautiful, willing creature beneath him. Tommy groans into Alfie's mouth as he's filled, pulling his knees up high and wide like he's silently begging for more. It turns Alfie on like nothing else. Tommy is _his,_ and he'll fucking well prove it. 

Alfie has to stop once he's fully sunk in, to hold Tommy’s hands and catch his breath. It's only the pressure of bone against bone that stops him coming instantly: foreheads pressed so hard together it's giving him a headache; hipbones locked in a painful embrace as his pelvis pushes down. Even Alfie's teeth are clenched, molars creaking under the intense pressure of trying to maintain his control. But Tommy is giving as good as he gets, arching up into Alfie—pushing back with his head and his hips and his hands—making everything harder and _worse_. It's like they're locked in a motionless fight, each of them trying to prove their strength by stopping the other from moving, neither daring to slacken at all, lest the other man should win. Alfie's cock pulses painfully.

"Fuck all those bastards downstairs," he pants, when finally he's got a grip on his voice. Their entwined fingers are clasped so tight that Alfie's fingertips feel numb. "You’re mine, Thomas, fucking _mine_ ," he growls.

Tommy's eyelashes blink against Alfie's, but he doesn't answer, just makes a stuttering noise in the back of his throat and fucking _comes_ like he's the easiest whore in all the world, which is so far from the actual truth that it would make Alfie laugh if he weren't completely stunned. Because . . . fucking hell, he was the one trying so goddamn hard to hold onto a little restraint and yet . . . the evidence is there between them, hot liquid coating their stomachs. Alfie, reluctantly straightens his arms, lifts himself up to better see the way Tommy's eyes have rolled back in his head. The bastard doesn't even look embarrassed, just supremely fucking relaxed.

"That what you needed, eh, love?" he asks, rocking his hips just a little. Beneath him, Tommy has melted—gone from rock-hard resistance to seeping liquid in the space of a few intense minutes—like ice left out in the sun. His legs have flopped onto the mattress, slack and pale on either side. He looks completely harmless, like a boy who'd never hurt a hair on anyone's head, who might just grin and tease you and run away with nothing more than a shy backwards glance. Which is demonstrably not fuckin’ true, is it? There's nothing harmless about Tommy Shelby. Nothing harmless about the way he's reached inside Alfie's chest and clenched his heart with a fist. Nothing gentle or warm about how that feels; it's hard and it’s terrifying and it _hurts_. And it's going to hurt considerably more, of that Alfie has no doubt, when his time is up and he’s left patting his pockets and wondering how that boy could have stolen something so elemental without him even knowing.

And maybe he shouldn't start moving so soon; shouldn't reach down to wrap Tommy's shrinking cock in his hand; shouldn't rub the pad of his thumb under the head and enjoy the way it makes Tommy flinch and shudder, makes his eyelids snap up in surprise. Maybe he shouldn't rock his hips so hard, shouldn't pull himself out and drive back in and aim for that perfect spot that he knows will be all the more sensitive in Tommy’s post-orgasmic haze. He probably shouldn't enjoy the thin, tight little sounds that Tommy makes when he realises Alfie isn't going to stop, the rising treble tone as the thrusts get harder and faster. He certainly shouldn't relish the fact that he knows Tommy won't make him stop; will just furrow his brow and grip his own hair and let Alfie keep going and going and _going_ until everything's too much. Till Tommy’s cock is wet and limp between them and he’s wincing on every thrust. Categorically, he shouldn't say the things that he says when he’s just about to come, shouldn’t whisper words into Tommy’s ear that would make a whore in Hades blush.

Maybe he should feel more concerned by the look of utter relief on Tommy's face when he finishes inside him. Maybe, and this is quite possible, Alfie should be a better man.

"Alright?" Tommy asks him, when he's staggered back from the bathroom and settled down in the bed once more. He's staring directly at Alfie, which feels more discomfiting than it should. 

"Yeah," Alfie answers. Tommy's not really the one who should be asking that though, is he? "You?"

"M'fine." He sounds a lot more sober than before. "So what was that all about?"

"What?"

"Being so fucking possessive."

He could deny it, he supposes, blame Tommy for turning him on or—

"You're jealous," Tommy says, interrupting that unfinished thought.

"Fuck off, mate. The day I'm jealous of that twat of a brother . . . with his stupid fuckin' hair and his skinny-arsed anger . . . the day I'm jealous of that? You can fuckin' well shoot me, mate." 

Tommy smirks slightly before he answers. "I meant Lizzie." Alfie's stomach tenses like he's bracing to be kicked.

"Lizzie?" Alfie repeats. "Lizzie, who you treat like shit and talk about as if she was last year's fuckin' Christmas present?"

"Bloody hell, Alfie, you can't seriously be jealous of me brothers—"

Tommy may well carry on talking, but Alfie's mind is busy elsewhere, because now he feels like a dick. He's given Tommy ammunition, admitted to an insecurity. And Lizzie for fucks sake? Why'd he even bring her up? Admittedly, she looked like a kicked puppy earlier, but still . . . it’s the family he’s jealous of. Or not so much jealous, as terrified.

"—Alfie?"

"What?"

"I said, we have each other, eh? We still have each other."

Tommy's hand comes up to rest on the back of Alfie's neck, to pull him closer. Alfie lets himself be moved into the embrace, rests his head on Tommy’s shoulder and tries not to think how much the gesture resembles the way Tommy gripped Arthur earlier. He heaves the blankets up around Tommy's shoulders and wraps him in a tight hug before trying to settle into sleep. Tommy drifts off soon enough, his whole body feels relaxed in a way that would be gratifying if Alfie felt like he was in any way responsible for it. He can't shake the stubborn feeling that he's been filling a vacuum that doesn't exist anymore. He lays still, relentlessly focused on the hot ebb and flow of Tommy’s breath against his neck, but it's hours before he can asleep.

***

"Come down for breakfast," Tommy says, when Alfie’s barely awake. The man’s half-dressed and isn’t even looking in Alfie's direction (too busy tidying his hair in the mirror).

"Nah, I'll leave you lot to it," Alfie says, heaving himself up to lean against the headboard. "I've already intruded enough."

Tommy turns to face him then. He looks softer than normal—collar open, waistcoat undone, no sign of a jacket—like a heavy weight's been lifted from his shoulders. "It's my house, Alfie. _They're_ the fucking guests." 

"So what does that make me?"

Tommy furrows his brow and gives Alfie a quizzical look. "It makes you naked, in my fucking bed. Now get dressed and come down. I'll see you in five."

When Alfie does, begrudgingly, come downstairs, he finds Tommy seated at the head of the table. The surrounding Shelbys all look the worse for wear; it's a wonder their company functions.

"Where is Arthur, this fine morning?" Alfie asks, when a quick survey shows the eldest sibling to be missing.

"Linda wanted him home," Ada says with an ironic lilt to her voice. 

"Feeding the fucking chickens or some'ing," John adds.

"Well, that is a shame. I was looking forward to gazing upon his delicate features over breakfast."

“Yeah, well. Don’t think he’s forgotten the last time you two broke bread,” John answers.

“A fair point, John-boy. But I have apologised to Arthur for that, haven’t I, Tommy? Didn’t I do that in this very house?”

“You did, Alfie,” Tommy says, straightening himself in his seat. He gestures for Alfie to sit next to him in the empty chair to his left. Various pots and platters have been deposited in the centre of the table and Mary is in the process of serving tea. She brings two newspapers to the end of the room, placing one next to Tommy and the other in front of Alfie. That gets John's back up even more, judging by the way he looks from the paper to Tommy and back again.

"Dig in," Tommy says, refusing to engage. He leans back instead and lights a cigarette. Fucking typical.

John and Finn stand up immediately, leaning into the centre to explore the generous display; there's enough food to feed the entire extended Lee family, never mind the six of them gathered here.

"Where's the fuckin' bacon?" John asks.

"It's kosher," Tommy answers.

John looks at his brother like he's joking. "Kosher? Fucking kosher, Tom?" 

"Yes," Tommy answers. “There's eggs, toast, porridge, bloody kippers. Everything else you'd want.” He waves distractedly at the items but sounds bored, like he knows this is going to kick off but really wishes it wouldn't.

"No sausages?" John asks.

"No. No fuckin' sausages, John."

Alfie can't help but interject. "I'm afraid I do not eat pig, John. You see my people believe the pig to be unclean. _Davar acher_ ," he adds.

John mutters something in Rokker which makes Tommy slam his hand on the table and hiss back in the same language, before yelling, "sit down, John."

Alfie pushes his chair back and gets ready to rise. "It's alright, Thomas, I will leave you to it. Wouldn’t want to ruin anyone’s appetite."

"You will not go anywhere, Alfie," Tommy says. "Sit the fuck down, John. We have business to discuss."

Polly is looking at her younger nephew through narrowed eyes, "John, sit down. This isn't the time."

"Can't we all try to get on?" says Finn.

"Yes, we can," Ada replies. "Funny how it takes the youngest person in the room to talk sense. Grow up, the lot of you."

They settle down to their food after that. Alfie waits until John has slathered jam all over his toast and taken a bite before looking up at him to comment. "S'very good that jam, innit? Ollie's mum makes it."

John stops chewing mid-mouthful to glare at Alfie as he speaks. 

"Yeah, uses her own strawberries apparently. Has an allotment over at Child's Hill."

John swallows, reluctantly, and drops the rest of his toast on the plate in disgust. 

"Where's Lizzie?" Tommy asks, when everyone has finished eating.

"I think she's still sleeping it off, Thomas," says Polly. "She did rather drown herself last night."

"Finn, go and find her. She should be here for this."

There follows a discussion of the Italian strategy that reminds Alfie of the Tommy he hasn’t seen for a long time. The Tommy who commands a room and demands respect, who barks orders and stamps out dissent. Who asks for opinions but largely ignores them and above all, who looks in control. He’s always admired it—that sheer presence— yet now he feels strangely threatened. By a man vain enough to commission a ten-foot high portrait of himself, and tasteless enough to hang it in his own dining room. Fucking ridiculous.

***

That night, after all the Shelbys have gone, the softer Tommy returns. And rather than feel relieved, Alfie treats him churlishly, like a child put out 'cause his buddy has new friends. He can't help it. Not even when Tommy is sucking him off, sunk to his knees in front of the fire in the drawing room of this house. Kneading his fingers in Alfie’s thighs and swallowing him down with a desperate look in his eyes, like there’s something he needs to prove. Alfie tries to enjoy the moment, tries to focus on the soft sounds from Tommy’s throat, the way he keeps trying too hard, choking himself, and pulling back with watery eyes. It should be enough to drive Alfie wild, but he can’t overcome this sinking feeling; a creeping dread that their bubble has burst, that the outside world has found its way in and polluted their beautiful delusion. Tommy doesn't need him anymore. He just hasn’t realised it yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what to say. I didn't expect to end up here either . . .

**Author's Note:**

> Part II to follow shortly...
> 
> Thank you as ever to museboundinshallows for being a wonderful beta. And to Tiny for endless (and endlessly enthusiastic) headcanoning! I hope I have done you both justice.
> 
> Please let me know what you thought. This is a BIG deal for these guys...not to mention the Shelbys at large!


End file.
